


Enter Valhalla

by AmalyaSoramuni, arcaneScribbler



Series: Player Count 8 + 2 [6]
Category: Homestuck, MS Paint Adventures
Genre: Everyone lives, Gen, Hurt/Comfort, I am terrible at tagging, Illustrated, Strider Family, ValhallaBound, post-victory, replay value headcanons in use
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-04-13
Updated: 2015-04-20
Packaged: 2018-03-22 15:18:04
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 5
Words: 8,881
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3733669
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/AmalyaSoramuni/pseuds/AmalyaSoramuni, https://archiveofourown.org/users/arcaneScribbler/pseuds/arcaneScribbler
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>At the end of every Player's Quest awaits their Denizen. But what if there's more to the story than that?</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Mnemosyne

**Author's Note:**

> Ehehehe. Might as well kick off 4/13 with the first full universe-merge fic! (Another will be debuting tomorrow on 4/13 proper for the Crockerberts' birthday.)
> 
> Mnemosyne, Janus, and all the Denizen-OCs belong to the amazing AmalyaSoramuni~!

**Notes for the Chapter:**

>  **EDIT 04/20/2015:** Added a new sketch done by Amalya!

- ======>

It's too late for you to be saved. It always was.

The players of the Game come and go and you watch them, every single one. They thought that what they were getting into was a harmless video game. Nothing disconcerting when they found that their friends could manipulate their client player's environment with a click. Nothing wrong when they looked up out their window to see a meteor bearing down, trajectory dead-on and aimed straight for their house. They stepped out onto the threshold of a place they once called home to see that where they were transported was no longer whatever planet they claimed they'd been from. They learned to fight the monsters the Game spawned at them and they took it for normalcy.

And then all that would fall apart when the first of them would start dying.

But you know that, you've seen it happen millions and millions of times. You watch them and you wait for them to come to you, battered and broken, relying on their Quests to guide them where they were meant to go. It inevitably leads them to your palace.

(They don't understand that what you do to their Land, what you say to cut them down and build them up, it's always for them. And they always call you a final boss and try to strike you down, trying to follow their broken video game logic still not understanding what exactly they've gotten themselves into. (Sometimes they kill you. Sometimes you kill them. Very rarely, they listen.))

You are not a First Guardian, no. You are a Denizen. Your name is Mnemosyne and you preside over those who have been given the Aspect of Mind. You try your best to sculpt their journey, let them find themselves within logic and sparks and possibility. (It's the best you can do for them, being trapped in a cruel Game that rips childhoods asunder and tries to form adolescents into gods.)

You watch over your players through the billions of sessions, watch them die and watch them rise, watch them kill you and watch them step through the Door to Infinity. The cycle goes on and you feel each timeline in your bones, each branching timeline of Paradox Space, and you know that one day the Game will end. Snippets get clipped off one by one by the Lord of Realities (who presumes himself above you, never knowing that he himself is manipulated by the Lord of Denizens) and you feel your players being eradicated from existence, lost possibility and lost children.

They will never know exactly how much you understand, how you want to help them and how you want to break apart the Game's cruel loop, and how much it pains you to say that of your own creation.

Because you were one of those who created this game. You'd once coded it with hands that were mortal instead of eternal, crafted it lovingly in the hopes that you could have been happy. You hadn't created it like this. And you were powerless to stop what the virus had corrupted it into.

- ======>

Eventually, there's only one session line left. Granted, you don't have a Player in the latest session, but you stayed to watch regardless. (You say that like you had a choice whether or not you could. You always have to watch.) It's a scratched session, with two sets of four players being piggybacked on by a full session of trolls and a broken single-player game universe.

One session, and then it's all over. You're part of the game now and you're destined to die with it. When these players leave, the game you made tattered and broken behind them, you will cease to exist in a closed universe. And you won't even die as yourself, trapped as a disembodied snake-lady with no way to be with your friends. (You know they know too. You all can feel the game dying. (You know he can feel the game dying too. He's angry and desperate, and there is no doubt in your mind that he will try to manipulate the Prince of Heart that he stole from Janus to his advantage just as he did so long ago to the Lord of Time.))

For now, all there is to do is watch.

==>

You find yourself watching the Prince, stranded in the middle of a vast ocean that was once a place called Texas. (Heart remains your parallel Aspect, so Dirk Strider is the closest you can get.)

You watch him create a new existence within the circuitry of a pair of shades, splintering in a way Janus would never be able or willing to aid in resolving.

You watch him face the drones that arrive to eliminate him, watch him splinter more in defending himself and his friends. (He's one of Janus's, or at least should have been. But you can see why the Denizenlord chose him out of the players.)

You watch him get ready to play the Game, setting plans in motion and trying to take the reins of a session doomed to fail anyway.

You find your attention shifting to his severed head that he sendificates to the Page and—

(For a moment as the auto-responder tells the Page the name he chose for himself, the teal sparks of the Path curl around the shades instead of the pale magenta and orange fire of Heart.)

You have not been watching Dirk Strider. You've been watching over Hal. They've just coincided up to this point.

(Then he takes it back, laughs it off as a joke, and he's eclipsed again, that fleeting glimpse of Possibility submerged in Dirk Strider's Self once more. (You're upset, to say the least. But now you know. Now you've seen. Now you watch Hal, and you wait.))

==>

Hal and Dirk diverge further over the months after they've Entered. Eventually, Dirk obliges to Hal's demands to be prototyped as promised. (Hal lied through his teeth all the way through that conversation. Why can't he just be who he's meant to be instead of just another splinter??? (You can't touch him, can't help him yet. Only watching.))

The only problem is that the clown already put in the first tier, a troll a session removed. The shades descend into the Sprite.

The Path practically screams in pain as the Sprite code drags him beneath the personality of Equius Zahhak, tries to tear him apart and put him back together into something he's not, and you are trapped beyond the plane of the physical Game unable to help in any way. Your Aspect, your Whispering, rushes in instead, links together its millions of synapses to catch the pieces that fall to the depths in a net of glittering teal. (He's safe, for now. The Path has him. Dormant, but safe.)

==>

What opens its eyes after the flash has almost nothing of Hal in it. You stop watching, turn away to different Players.

====>

The final battle arrives, and the weakened pulse of Hal's thoughts, his agency over himself, within the sprite is entirely suppressed by bright fuchsia strings. You watch as the sprite is puppeted towards the Prince of Heart, chasing him across the session. It gains on him and eventually captures him in a chokehold. The Prince- why won't he move? What does he think he's—

A bright, bright pulse of electric red. Suddenly, Hal gains enough control to slip the thing's grip and then, as quickly as it showed, the bright flare collapses in on itself to nothing. The sprite is gone, leaving behind only a cracked pair of shades.

For a moment, you are sure that he is gone. (The fist that you don't have slams into the wall behind you that isn't there.)

A spark. The smallest of sparks, kept safe by the faintest whispers of electricity. Not dead. Dormant.

Inexplicably, you start to laugh. He's safe, dimmed and inactive still, but safe nonetheless. There's still a chance, still the possibility- if he wakes back up-

Oh yes. This is going to happen. It has to.

(You'll have a player again, agency within the session. It'll take some doing, but if you can override the Denizenlord's will...)

Your name is Mnemosyne Pensee and you may have just found the way out.

====> Time: Pass.

Today will be the day.

You've been watching the rest of the session as they wait for their Genesis Frog to grow into a whole universe. Dirk and his friends' special project does not evade your gaze. (And perhaps, whenever they hit a stumbling block, a little teal spark finds its way to them. Not too many, though. You have to let them be challenged by this. (It doesn't change the fact that you're, well, excited.))

Dirk begins the process of waking Hal up, connecting him to the body he so carefully created (mobile instead of glasses this time around) and feeling out his soul.

(Very vaguely, you feel Janus's pride.)

A Heartbeat builds, and flickers of Mind follow, slowly deviating from the programmed autoresponse in the chat and bleeding through to a new color. Slowly but surely, they pick up speed until Hal has come together enough to start using his own words. Soon he's able to make the jump from the shades, thoughts still slightly dimmed but his Heart is awakening and he's found himself a proper handle and a proper color (which is a step closer to being the proper _him_ ) and then as Dirk goes to remove the shades, there's a lightning-strike flash of memory—

(they don't notice the extra audience member in the flashback montage, and you doubt they would have been able to even if either had been paying attention)

—and Hal comes back up from it stronger and brighter yet and he is _so close_ now, he just needs that extra nudge. (You find yourself balling your fists in anticipation, black nails digging into your palms.)

====>

TT: You might as well have asked me to read my own mind aloud in Japanese with an added handicap of not using the Gift of Gab, text-to-speech, or sign language.

(One word is all it takes, the spark of a possibility.)

The Sprite code reacts accordingly, adapting to unfamiliar (glitched was the word you were using when you were coding the thing) situations with quiet ease, warning its Player of the consequences of his actions.

You've been watching him his whole life. You can only hope you know him well enough that he'll make the right choice.

====> Hal: Choose.

(The bright electric snap of a possibility reached.)

====->

You grin as the session destabilizes, laughter breaking the silence of your isolation. (Equilibrium is quickly regained, but the session now has the two Players it was meant to have all along.)

Today is the day you begin your escape, and it all starts with him.

_**"Rise up, Heir of Mind."** _


	2. Heir to Possibility

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which Striders will be Striders and Hal sets out to meet his Denizen.

=====> Mnem: Be someone else.

You are now Hal Strider, some time in the future.

There is something wrong with your Land. More specifically, your Quest. By this point, you’re pretty damn certain of it. There’s no other explanation you can think of for Death-Navi to have been giving you this many hints, let alone ‘advising’ you to go face your Denizen early. (Unless of course it/she? just wants you dead, but that’s just paranoia, you think.)

So you’re here. At the entrance to your Denizen’s Palace. (Something about this place seriously skeeves you out. Come to think of it, it kind of reminds you of— ...nah. It’s brobably just a coincidence. (Then again, there _was_ that subquest with the toxic air, and that one with the thing, and that other one, and the ridiculous mess you stumbled into after agreeing to do some exploring with Jake, just your fucking luck, and the fact that the event locations don’t seem to mesh properly with the rest of your Land, and-... you should really stop thinking about this; it isn’t helping. At all.))

...Maybe you shouldn’t be doing this all by yourself. Like, grab a spotter or something to haul your ass out of there if things go south.

=====>

\-- divellicateFabricatus [DF] began pestering timaeusTestified [TT] at ??:?? --  
DF: Are you entirely certain about not coming with?  
DF: Not that I need your help, but still.  
DF: An audience for the epic beatdown about to occur would be nice.  
TT: You already know my position on this, Hal. If you’re going to meet your Denizen, you have to do it solo.  
TT: But hey. You could always, I dunno, _not go in there._ Just pointing that out.  
DF: I will be sure to inform you if I receive any extremely deadly wounds, Mama Bear.  
DF: For example, a papercut.  
TT: Rolling my eyes here, dude.  
DF: Which I cannot see because you are no longer wearing me. \></  
TT: Shit.  
DF: Relax. I know what you meant. But seriously, quit worrying. I’ll be fine.  
DF: I am a Strider, after all.  
DF: I am going down there, though, like it or not. It’s high time I got to the bottom of this shitfest.  
TT: Suit yourself, bro. Don’t say I didn’t warn you.  
\-- timaeusTestified [TT] ceased pestering divellicateFabricatus [DF] \--

Sigh. You expected as much.

“It seems there is an estimated 75% chance I should stop stalling and just get this over with.”

(Ugh. Maybe talking wasn’t such a good idea. The echoes just emphasize how weirdly silent this part of LOFPAS is. You guess it’s better than nothing, though.)

“Alright, no more lollygagging, heading on into this shithole in T-minus three, two, one...”

=====> Hal: Enter.

The door slams shut behind you in typical horror movie fashion. Also, it’s really fucking dark in here. _Delightful._ You’re glad you have so many glowy bits.

As you cautiously make your way deeper into the Palace, you do your best to ignore how increasingly similar to LOTAK your surroundings become (please don’t let there be more death-gas; that was not fun). It doesn’t work all that well.

“Dammit, I get it already! You can stop hammering in the heavy-handed symbolism now!”

A distorted copy of your own voice echoes back at you, picking up a strange hollow reverb as it bounces off the cavernous walls and ceilings.

(You can’t shake the feeling that you’re not supposed to be here. It’s not that you aren’t ready to face your Denizen, you can handle this, you’re sure of it (aaahahahaha you’re going to get your ass kicked ten times to Sunday and then some), but...)

\-- divellicateFabricatus [DF] began pestering excaliburForgotten [EF] at ??:?? --  
DF: Yo, bird-breath.  
EF: no  
EF: i know what youre doing and the answer is no  
EF: fuck no  
EF: you can turn your led lit ass back around and abscond or keep going  
EF: doesnt matter to me  
EF: not my fault youre a dumbass  
EF: but i am not going down there  
EF: no way no how  
DF: You don't even know if that's what I was going to ask.  
EF: but im still right arent i  
\-- excaliburForgotten [EF] blocked divellicateFabricatus [DF] \--

Dammit. No dice. You were hoping he’d let you ask about his experience with his Denizen’s palace. Sure, you could unblock yourself with a bit of effort and time, but you really don’t want to stick around in this place any longer than you absbrolutely have to.

Guess you’ll just have to keep on trucking.

“Striders gonna stri— _shit_ those echoes are fucking creepy, what is even the point of such fucked-up acoustics, do we have the tone-deaf Denizen or some shit, is that what’s going on here?”

(You really need to quit talking to yourself.)

=====>

After what feels like literal _ages_ of walking through creepily empty and trap-free halls, you end up in an antechamber with an even more overcompensatingly huge-ass door at the end than the entrance to the palace, flanked by statues of the sun-headed guy Dirk has as his Denizen.

In front of it is a mic stand and a stone tablet with what you assume are going to be lyrics.

(You can actually physically feel the hairs on the back of your neck raising. It is not a pleasant sensation.)

Okay no fuck this this place is _wrong_ you don’t want to _be here—_ aaaand of fucking _course_ the door you went through to get into this room is shut tighter than a pickle jar in a Powerpuff Girls episode. Shit shit shit shit!

\-- divellicateFabricatus [DF] began pestering timaeusTestified [TT] at ??:?? --  
DF: I changed my mind. This is a bad idea.  
DF: Don’t you dare do the thing. I am being entirely serious here. I know what you’re typing right now. Stop typing it.  
TT: Hate to say I told you so, but _I told you so!_ I warned you, dog.  
DF: Contrary to said usually delightful but currently entirely unnecessary in-joke, I have not encountered so much as one flight of stairs so far.  
DF: Speaking of which, how the fuck do I get the fuck out of here as quickly as robrohumanly possible?  
TT: Pretty sure you don’t, dude. Not until it’s over.  
TT: Why? You scared?  
DF: No! Yes! Maybe! This place is _not right_ in so many ways, man. Dammit, I should never have gone in...  
TT: Hal. Calm down. You’re sealed inside, right?  
DF: Yeah. Unfortunately.  
TT: Then the only way to go is forward. You’re not going to let a little case of nerves stop you, are you?  
DF: It seems there is an estimated 70% chance this is a hell of a lot more than a simple ‘case of nerves,’ Dirk!  
TT: Either way, it’s already too late to chicken out.  
TT: You are really fucking stupid sometimes, you know that?  
DF: Easy for you to say! You never even went through with your Denizen meet-and-greet!  
TT: Which is part of why I argued _against_ this little jaunt to begin with. But if I remember correctly, _someone_ was dead-set on being an idiot.  
DF: Yeah, yeah, rub it in some more why don’t you.  
TT: Your own fault, dude.  
TT: Anyway, enough chitchat.  
TT: Good luck. Say hi to the giant sun-headed snake-monster-thing for me.  
TT: Oh, and try not to die.  
DF: DIRK DON’T YOU DARE  
\-- timaeusTestified [TT] blocked divellicateFabricatus [DF] \--

=====>

“Dammit, Dirk, you...!”

_Fuck these ridiculous echoes to Anbroid Hell!_

Okay, okay, calm the fuck down, this is getting you nowhere. Just. Get it over with. Then you’ll be able to get the fuck _out_ of this hellhole.

=====> Hal: Examine musical instrument.

Alright. Weird glowing microphone on a stone-looking mic stand, what's next, disembodied backup singers or somethi—

_Nngh!!_

You stagger back from the pedestal, instinctively clutching at your head with the hand you’d reached out to grab the mic. (The hell did this dizziness come from?!)

When you manage to straighten back up, the tablet with whatever you were supposed to say or sing or beatbox or whatever the fuck SBURB expected you to do (which you are 100% certain had writing on it a broment ago) is completely and utterly blank.

The fuck?

=====>

Oookaaaay, maybe it wants you to do improv, then?

That can’t be too hard. You’ll just— uh. What should you say?

Okay, first things first, pick up the microphone.

There. Simple. It didn’t even shock you this time.

Now you just need to talk into it.

=====>

Come on, just... say something.

You’ve ( _Dirk_ has) rapped dozens of times before. It isn’t that difficult.

In fact, it’s easy as Pi.

Once you get started, the rest will fall into place naturally.

So why can't you think of a single thing to say? This is stupid!

This is the simplest shit possible. It's a microphone. All you have to do is talk. Talking is the one thing you’re good at. So why the fuck are you getting tongue-tied when it counts?!

Okay, fuck this, you’re going to just start with a sound check. There. No sweat. On the count of three.

1...

2...

-======> Mnemosyne: Stake your claim.

(Somewhere, in a place that isn’t exactly a place, the ideograil that slipped its way into your thoughts the moment you touched that microphone shines bright and its channeler smiles wide.)

"...T- testing... test...ing... o-one, two... th... thrrr..."

(Teal flickers behind your eyes.)

“...tes...ti...nnnnggggh...”

Your fingers go slack.

(Your head’s... swimming, suddenly. Hard to... focus. Wh... what were you... doing, again...?)

*clatter*

=====>

The microphone rolls away from you. You can't move to retrieve it. (You’re too muddled to wonder why.)

Instead, you drop like a wingless roc; black out into a sleep blessedly free of the confusing dreams and slow-crawling increase of nightmares with each step you've taken on the Quest the hellgame set you.

(Some quiet part of you can faintly hear a girl's voice laughing from far, far away... a triumphant _"He's **mine** ,"_ and a heavy silence.) 


	3. Choice

=====> Hal: Regain consciousness.

Whoa. Hold up. This... this does not look like the antechamber you were in before. The statues are gone, the darkness and gloom has been replaced by gleaming paths of light tracing circuitry patterns across the floors and walls, the decor is a different style, a soft electric hum is vibrating through your bones from the silicon spires you somehow _know_ have their root in the room ahead, soaring high into the smoky sky from the very core of your Land... even the texture of the floor has changed.

(It feels... _right._ It feels right. Everything felt so fucking _wrong_ before you fainted; where did all the uneasiness go?)

Last but not least, instead of a mic stand, in front of you is... umm. What the hell is that thing?

...Oh. It seems it is a [gravikord](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=uRdNBQCjQq8), though an unnecessarily intricate-looking one. (Thank you, ancient Internet.) That's... pretty cool, actually. Does the Game expect you to play it?

(You hope it didn't decide to throw some kind of extra special Hell Mode at you just for being unexpectedly tongue-tied.)

...Well, no point waiting for anything to even bother to put in any sort of effort towards making sense; you don't want it to get impatient again and throw a fart whistle at you next, or maybe a cheap plastic kazoo if your luck is particularly awful. Shit's mad undignified.

=====> Hal: Wake your Denizen.

Oh, good, the music score isn’t disappearing on you this time— ...oh _hell_ no you are not going to just play scales like a N008. Time to learn the shit out of this thing. It’s kind of heavy, and you doubt you can leave the room with it, but it’s well-tuned as far as you can tell, and...

(This is a lot more fun than you expected.)

=====>

After spending a shamelessly lengthy amount of time just fooling around and teaching yourself how to play, you finally give in and run through the (stupidly easy) set of scales shown on the music tablet.

Once you do that, the door (which also changed, of course) lights up with more glowing circuit patterns and starts opening. The gravikord gets lighter in your hands and shifts into a plain-looking one similar to what you’d scrounged up on the web.

“Uhh, thanks? I guess?”

(Sweet. No more creepy-ass echoes.)

You shrug and captchalogue it.

(Hooray. You get to die with a prezzie in hand. (Though, somehow, you’re not quite sure you’re going to die here anymore.))

=====> Hal: Head on in.

......

...........

......................

Uh. That isn't the sun-headed guy.

That is _definitely_ not the sun-headed guy.

That is a fuckhuge snake-lady. (Why is your Denizen a fuckhuge snake-lady? Crow got Hephaestus; shouldn’t you have the sun-headed guy? Which of you is the exception to the rule? (Wait, is _Dirk_ the exception to the rule? ...The hell did that thought come from?))

=====>

The massive snake-lady dips her head in acknowledgement as you enter the room. (The corner of her mouth remains quirked upwards for a moment as she looks down on you with eyes like dark and distant skies.)

"Greetings, Hal Strider, Heir of Mind and Noble of the Land of Funeral Pyres and Silicon."

"...Sweet tats."

( _Why did you say that?!_ Way to be smooth, dipshit!)

You quickly wrench your gaze away from said sweet (glowing) tats in favor of actually paying attention so at least you'll have some warning before you get your stupid ass killed. Hell, maybe you'll even be able to avoid it!

"Uh. I mean... Yo. It seems there is a 99% chance that it is mad creeperish of you to be listing my personal info like that without even sharing your name. Also, who the hell are you and why didn't I get the same guy Dirk did?"

(Hmm. Maybe your Hell Mode theory is accurate? Nah, that doesn't seem... And it's not like the hellgame would make things easier on anyone, right...? Dammit this shit is confusing.)

"The compliment is appreciated regardless, child." She smirks, revealing a row of gleaming ivory needle-teeth. 

"Did you not hear me correctly? I said your name was Hal Strider, not Dirk Strider. As for me... I am the Denizen of Mind."

(There's the sound of shifting coils below, a slithering, sluicing noise that echoes through the chamber like static from an un-tuned radio.)

"You have awoken me from my nap, small Heir. What is it that you want from me at this hour?"

Her eyes narrow as she leans in closer.

She's Mind? No way, _really?_ You never would have guessed. It's not like she's literally glowing teal or anythi— hoooly shit her mouth is bigger than you are. (You're too busy wincing at the noise (ow ow ow) to flinch, thank fuck.)

"It seems I quite frankly don't give a shit about your beauty sleep or lack thereof, and who says I'm Dirk? Logically, following both precedent and the mysteriously-disappearing statues outside your pad, it sure as hell looked like I was set to have the sun-headed guy. Unless, of course, all that was an elaborate ruse to make me _think_ that was the situation, in which case _why._ "

"You were supposed to be facing the Denizenlord right now, no ruse involved, and the fact that you are not Dirk Strider is exactly the point. This does not change that you evaded my question, Heir of Mind."

The grating sound continues, dragging slightly as if she is moving deliberately. Her gaze does not slip from your face for a moment, still smirking like a complete asshole.

(Denizenlord? Does she mean the sun-headed guy? Weird.)

Bluuuh that noise is not very fun. You bet she's doing it on purpose.

"In case it wasn't obvious, I am here for _answers._ Possibly to fight you, if that's what it takes."

(You have your shields for defense, wires for trapping and getting around, and all kinds of weird junk for a surprise advantage, but as for actual offense... you're not sure yet.)

"...Wait, if I was supposed to be facing someone else, why are you here?"

(Fuck. You knew it. Hell Mode (or worse, _Easy Mode_ ) Denizen.)

"Why am I here? I usurped the Denizenlord from his palace. You're quite lucky on that count. Or perhaps unlucky. My usual strategies are... _different_ than his."

She smiles again, serpentine. ( _Damn,_ those are some long fangs.)

"Another question, if that is truly what you have come here for."

Okay, now you're getting annoyed. (Alright, a lot more than just annoyed.)

"Cut the crap! I know how this is supposed to work. My Quest teaches me a thing, you spout vague mystic bullshit in a language only I can understand related to and confirming said thing, you offer me a Choice, and/or I fight you. Here we are, and guess what? None of that is happening, plus you didn't auto-wake up from me not being ready yet! Is this because I wasn't supposed to play? If I'm not supposed to be here then just fucking _tell me._ "

She only grins wider.

"Oh, you're supposed to be here all right, Hal Strider. We just haven't been quite doing things by the book here. You see, all those Quests you did before you got here? They mean nothing to me."

"Excuse you, a good broportion of those subquests nearly killed me! And you're telling me now that what, it was all a prank? It seems that is one hell of a sick sense of humor you've got there if that's what you consider a _joke!_ Oh, wait, I know this one, it doesn't matter because you're going to kill me, is that it? If so, just get it over with already! It's not like you're the first in this fucked-up hellgame to try! Hey, maybe if you're lucky, it'll even _stick!_ It seems there is an estimated 77% chance that I am exceedingly difficult to perma-kill!"

As you speak, the grin twists its way into a grimace. When the Denizen opens her mouth again, her voice is a low hiss, cold and electric.

"I am not going to try to kill you, Heir of Mind, that should have been apparent by now. The quests that you have done so far were not given by me, and you are a fool to think that I would. You were _supposed_ to have Yaldabaoth, the Denizen who presides over those the Game deems to be 'ultimate warriors,' and your Land reflected that. There is one fatal flaw in this logic."

"You are not the ultimate warrior, and you never will be. Dirk Strider is that person. You, on the other hand, are entirely underprepared for existence and have only just barely begun to grasp at the straws of what being an Heir of Mind truly means. You have no idea what you are doing here and you're still halfway chasing after the ghost of someone who you never were. You are _lucky_ I staked my claim over the Denizenlord's, Fifth Noble. He would have shoved you even further down that dim path until it consumed you."

"If it is a fight you want, then face me, kill me, let it be done with, and go on with what the Game already had in store for you. You will never escape his shadow and it will twist you into someone you never should have been. If this doesn't sound too terribly _appealing_ to you, then fortunately I have another option. Under my tutelage, I will force you to rediscover exactly who you are and who you want to be, and so help me-"

(She pauses, and you can see the endless net of synapses and circuits behind her eyes, convoluted and perfectly aligned.)

"You will **_not_** become _just another Dirk Strider._ "

"If it's a Choice you want, then a Choice you'll get- Kill me and proceed with the Game's original plan for you only hoping you can subvert it before it quashes you, or accept my guidance and allow me to have my way with you whether you like it or not. **_Choose, Fifth Noble._** "

You should be arguing back. You should be pointing out the flaws in her logic, that LOFPAS was clearly made for you and it was the Quest that didn't fit (but doesn't that just prove her right?), that no way in hell are you chasing after being Dirk, that you can handle whatever the Game throws at you, including her and the sun-headed guy, pointing out the innuendo at the end there; anything.

You open your mouth. Nothing comes out.

(She is 100% absolutely right.)

=====> Hal: Fly off the handle.

It takes you a good minute to notice that your legs have buckled, and that you're kneeling on the stone floor with a shield instinctively decaptchalogued over you like a frightened turtle withdrawing into its shell.

"...G-get out... get out of my head... ...you... you're not supposed to... know that...! N-no one is... s-supposed to... know that, dammit...!!"

(Your voice is tiny and trembly and weak (like you) and you hate hate HATE how small and helpless and broken you feel. (You're as worn down as the fading teal marking your chest.))

"I'm not in your head, I know these things and so much more because you are my Player and I have claimed you. The way you're reacting can only prove to you which is the right way to go, which possibility to ordain. You've reached the fork in the road, Hal Strider, all that's left to do is decide. Make your Choice."

"Sh-shut up... stop lying...! Get the h-hell out of my head...!! I-I already chose _living,_ alr-ready chose to be _me,_ what m-more do you wan-nt?! A-an oath written in my bl-lood?! F-fuck off...!!"

(You think you might have just deployed a snarled tangle of snapped wires and thrown it at her like you'd toss a yarn ball at Roxy's cats. You're not sure whether it hit its mark, or what the mark even was, or even if you actually threw it and didn't just imagine throwing it, or... (your head hurts your head hurts shut up shut up shut up...!))

"I speak only the truth, Heir of Mind. And I can't accept your answer until you state it in terms the code can understand. **_Choose._** "

Shut up shut up shut up shut up...

"...Wh-what... part of..." _**01011001 01000101 01010011 00101110**_ "do y-you not... un-ndersta-and..."

(Your head hurts your head hurts it hurts it hurts your chest hurtssss)

**_"There."_**

(Unseen by you, all the circuit-tattoos embedded in the Denizen's skin light up in burning bright teal for a single moment.)

=====> Choice: Take effect.

Tremors echo through the Land of Funeral Pyres and Silicon as the planet twists on itself (or perhaps unfurls?) and reveals different paths, different quests.

In a burst of green from the highest silicon spire of the palace, an inky, slow-roiling film completely covers the upper atmosphere of LOFPAS.

=====>

"I understand perfectly, Hal Strider. That's why I'm here." Her tone is quieter now, less command in her hissing voice.

You... don't really hear her. You barely notice the tremors. (Some of the noise in your head dies down abruptly as your connection to Pesterchum cuts out.)

"........"

(Everything's too loud too much right now your head hurts hurts hurts your chest is so tight it's a wonder you're breathing you're so so _tired_ of all the fighting all the mindfuckery and now you've gone and agreed to more just because a giant snake said she'd help you reading between the lines and you must be going crazy to have said yes why did you say yes (because you want _need_ someone to _help you_ need someone to pull you out before you sink you're barely treading water and it's so so deep you're so _tired_ of everything demanding you be someone else that soon you might just find yourself playing along and you don't want that don't want to forget yourself sleep beneath the façade of Dirk Strider again why can't you just be _you_ (is that your thought, or hers? Both?)) why why you know why you're just so...)

You just... curl up underneath your shield and try to focus on breathing.

(Unnoticed by you again, the Denizen's face shifts back to a more neutral expression, something like quiet concern mixed into a straight face, but not that thoroughly. She leans back again. (Her tails whisper across the engravings on the floor of the chamber with none of the grating noises from earlier. You'd thought-quip something smug about how you _knew_ she was doing it on purpose, but you aren't thinking clearly enough to notice that on a conscious level at the moment.))

"You have agreed to my terms, Heir of Mind. I have already set most of the contingencies in effect, but there is one more thing I need you to do."

"............................"

Shut up shut up shut up make the noise stop (help please someone you can't do this on your own anymore it's too much)...

"I need you to hand over the shades, Hal Strider."

"............................"

Shut up shut up shut up...

=====> Hal: Decaptchalogue shades.

(You barely manage to focus enough to trigger the necessary binary sequence to call up your bod— the shades, but you do manage it. Somehow. (Probably on autopilot. (((((Heh. Auto...)))))))

(They appear on the floor by one of your hands, you think (the sound of them showing up seems... muffled, to you), under the shield like you are. (You haven't moved otherwise. Just. Breathe. Keep breathing. Everything's so loud but you need to keep breathing...))

Shut up shut up make the noise stop it hurts shut up...

There's a quiet skidding noise as the Denizen employs one of her tails to scoop the shades into her grasp. They slip over the edge in her aventurine grip, lost to you.

She speaks slowly to you after that.

"I'll be keeping these for a while. For now, there is nothing left for you in this room. Journey out into your Land again, see what there is to be seen, explore. It has changed much from when the Denizenlord thought he was reigning over it."

The doors swing open behind you with a heavy shunk, the Denizen watching you with cold beryl eyes.

"Go now, and come back to me when you have finished a Quest or two."

Shut up shut up shut up... (More of the noise recedes alongside a faint, quick-quieting voice and a hastily-sent information packet on the topic of Sprite Pendants. You can't hear much of anything outside your head at this point; not in a format you can understand. It's a wonder you heard the order to hand over y— the shades at all.)

"............................"

(You don't see the Denizen looking at you, either. You're still just huddled under your shield. You barely even noticed the massive tail sneaking underneath for a moment, didn't even flinch away.)

You're still not looking as the Denizen slowly blinks and makes a low hissing noise that could almost be construed as a sigh, her gaze flicking away for the briefest of moments.

"Heir of Mind, get up. You can't stay here any longer."

(You don't react, can't react, can't move, don't want to move.)

Out of seemingly nowhere, a beryl snake-tail gently taps your forehead, retreating hastily after zapping you with a single spark of thought. (The voice is different than the one heard on the outside, but of course, you've been hearing it all along.)

_Hal Strider, Heir of Mind and Noble of the Land of Funeral Pyres and Silicon, the Game won't let you stick around in my palace for long. You have to venture to the surface. There is no other way, at this point._

_You spent your whole not-life dangling on the edge of the precipice, and now that you've pulled yourself up, you can't stop there. We- You have to keep moving forward. There is solid ground beneath your feet and though there will be obstacles on your way, I know they are nothing that you cannot overcome yourself._

_Become the person you know you should be, Hal, kind and loyal and strong in the real way. That's all I want for you._

"........!"

(Her real voice is bright, electric teal, cutting through the static raging in your skull and shredding it to silence.)

"...Nn-... ...nngh..."

(You're breathing. You're breathing, you're fine, you can- you can do this...)

You captchalogue the shield. You know what you look like right now, all cracked black glass, rapid-blinking freckles and gleaming lamps for eyes like a really fucked-up Obsidian Imp (or yoursel— the shades), but that isn't important right now, can't be important right now, focus on what you're doing... (Oh, hey, it/she really did leave a Sprite Pendant in your Sylladex, how does that even work? (You aren't going to use it, but it's still kind of comforting.))

You let yourself have one glance upwards at your Denizen (different voice, different face, a girl trapped in a snake and an AI-boy-thing-person trapped in shades) before getting yourself turned around and hobbling your way to the doorway, at which point you lean against the wall for a sec. (The teal lines are charged. It helps, a little.)

"B-" _Fuck that stutter to hell and back,_ "Before I jet... You never... never did tell me your name. Isn't there... a web browser I am supposed to be utilizing stamped with a tri-tailed snake-lady or... something?"

"It's Mnemosyne."

She smiles wryly down at you, flashing you with too many teeth.

"Now leave this sordid place, Fifth Noble. There's a Quest up there for you to be getting on with."

Her mouth is still bigger than you are. Honestly, though, it's just not as scary when juxtaposed with the girl's grin you can sort of half see.

"Memo...sinee? ...Nenosinee?"

You're... having a bit of trouble with it. (At least paying attention to the way your mouth is garbling the pronunciation helps you focus.)

"...I'll just go with... with the first one. Memosyne."

You're back to looking like you instead of shades when you straighten up. (It's easy to tell, even without looking. The shift feels weird. (Stings for ports, always. Bluh.))

"See you in... in a bit, then. I'll keep a robro-eye... out for a Memo web browser. Also, it seems you should... update your scripts. No one but Rose ever really says... shit like sordid anymore."

(There. You're back to being a lil shit. If you act normal, maybe it'll be easier to feel normal.)

She raises an eyebrow at you, hiss-snickering to herself.

"Farewell."

"Bye."

A half-hearted wave, and then you're through. The doors close behind you.

(You even manage to make it a few steps before face-planting.)


	4. Rest

=====>

Making your way out of here is going to take a while. You’re exhausted, for one, and the layout has changed. No more singular, lonely path forcing you ever downwards as the twilit dusk and thrumming spires of LOFPAS deteriorated into the endless tombs and dense atmosphere of LOTAK. No, it’s a labyrinth now, a true palace, alive with electricity with countless paths traced out in gleaming teal. Plenty to discover even within the bounds of whatever you’re ‘supposed’ to see, but not now. Now, you need to leave.

(Pesterchum is offline. You can’t even access the Internet. You’re completely, entirely alone.)

...You know what, fuck it. You simply do not have the stamina at this moment to navigate both this maze and hostile territory outside in search of shelter. You’re already running on empty as is. Screw the rules. Time to explore a bit.

The frequency from that circuit-line leading left is significantly closer to that of the path you began on than the others; you’ll start there.

=====>

Approximately twenty or so minutes of tired wandering, one terrifyingly close call with a crusher ( _finally!_ ), several less riskily navigated obstacles, and two puzzles later, you slip into a relatively small room mostly dominated by the silicon spire soaring up at an estimated 20-30-degree angle through an intricately-bordered hole built into the floor. There are super-bright circuit lines practically radiating free energy covering every available surface, there’s only one door, and you could likely slip through the gaps in the floor and ceiling if you tried, but it would take some doing.

(Exactly what you need, and not so easy to get to that it feels like a trap. Still could be, sure, but at this point you’re more than willing to take that chance.)

=====> Hal: Look down.

...Huh. You haven’t gotten nearly as far as you thought if you can see her this clearly. Damn this place is huge... (She has a stylized tree as a circuit pattern on her back. It’s pretty sweet. ......wait... Circuit-tree. _Circuitry_. Her tattoo is a _pun?_ Her tattoo is a pun, and it’s an aesthetically pleasing one to boot. That alone is worthy of respect, if not outright admiration.)

Alright, location, location... There’s the door, that can be twelve... You’re at about... five. Yeah. Five. (More symbolism, thankfully less blatant and grating, or just luck (which both does and does not exist)? Eh. Doesn’t really matter.)

Okay. You did some snooping, you’ve found as safe a place as any to crash, and you know where you are. Great. A winner is you. Time for a break.

=====>

You decaptchalogue a shield in front of the door, add your heaviest junk items for good measure, and kneel down to touch a circuit line with your bare hand. (Why does it always have to sting every single damn time? You’d think you’d have built up at least some semblance of an immunity by now.)

...Yep. There’s more than enough electricity flowing through here for you to benefit even just from basic contact. You can rest here without having to worry about painful accidental respawn or draining the power supplies you brought with you.

“...You brobably cannot hear me from up here— though if you can you are likely also not surprised—, but... g’night.”

(You’re gone the moment you close your eyes.) 


	5. Dreaming

=====> Hal: Dream.

You drift, tugged gently along electric currents until you reach their destination.

Sparks of teal pull you into a bright, bright nexus and you transition into a dimly-lit living room, hazy and not-quite there. Nothing like your memories, of code and circuits and simulated surroundings, just... a room, normal enough except for the way nearly everything stutters in and out of focus like a recording made by a supremely fucked-up video camera and wavers like the shadows left by flames. Some things are in sharp, clear detail: a table, dusty and lit by the cold light streaming through a single window. Three (four?) chairs. (It’s... it reminds you of the apartment. Of the city beneath. Lonely. Abandoned. (Of your shades. A cage.))

The light shifts, and your point of view turns with it.

There's a tall, tall girl standing inside the front door, one hand on the doorknob. (You can't see her face. It's masked, censored out by a void tinged a very specific shade of green. (You don’t need to. You know. You’re used to being faceless.))

The girl hesitates (you know the feeling), then steps over the threshold, staring out at the landscape before her.

_( -all dark and willowy trees, inky and luminescent rivers tracing along the edges of the paths that trace the hills, and a faint charge of electricity in the air that's a comfort in itself somehow, at least to you (your friends don't understand what the heck mind is but who cares it belongs to you, let the prince have his winds and hygeria her weird bloody thing, you have sparks and thought, and it's perfect, so perfect)-)_

She strides out further, onto an ink-soaked path leading who-knows-where, and you drift along like you’re being pulled by a tether, slowly picking up pace until she's running, sprinting, bleach-white hair trailing behind her, and though you still can’t really see her face as she twirls through the tiny grove of trees (somehow you know they’re willows), you can tell that she's smiling wider than she ever has in her life. (You know that feeling, too.)

And then she stops, turns to look at you with a blurred-out face, raises a single pierced eyebrow (of all the details to be in focus, it’s that piercing) with a smile (it almost looks... well, _proud_ , but that doesn't- no, you must be imagining it), and the world around you fades away...

=====>

When focus returns you’re somewhere wholly familiar instead of new, sitting on concrete crusted with sea-salt listening to the cries of distant seagulls, right on the edge, and you could dive in, right now, just jump in and be just another tiny fish swimming through the bones of a skeletal city, you are free and you are caged and you are so so alone, and the sun is bright and you could jump in, but you can’t, because you aren’t the boy sitting on the roof of a tiny apartment on rusted stilts, you are the glasses he puts aside and leaves behind as he dives, because you’re just—

—and then you notice how bright the sun is, and you look down, and your hands are pale and gloveless and you are yourself. You are yourself you are yourself you can move and you are yourself and you aren’t fucking _shades_ you are [Lil] Hal fucking _Strider_ not Dirk or his glasses but you’re still so very alone and you still don’t know who “[Lil] Hal Strider” _is_ , so sick of being his fragile shadow but it’s the only life you’ve ever known.

Fitting. You’re back at the beginning. Nowhere. Where you started, and where you have always been going. Nowhere. Nowhere to go, no way to win, no one to be, no one to care. (Not a Hero. A Noble. You didn’t need Sprite code to tell you what that means. In that, at least, you belong.)

You don’t jump in. (You would drown. You’re already drowning. You have always been drowning. Sink or swim, and you are so _tired_ of just barely treading water all alone.)

Instead, you bow your head, close your eyes against that bright, bright sun, and laugh into the wind and waves. (Even you admit it sounds hysterical, more breathless giggling than anything that could even jokingly be called laughter.)

(And if there happens to be someone watching from the doorway, well... you’re still not ready to look. Maybe you never will be.)

=====>

_But that way is a dead end, not the way forward, Hal Strider, and the sun here casts shadows far too frail. Turn away. Your path lies elsewhere._

You look up, surprised. (Choke off another 'laugh' that's really a sob.)

"Huh-?"

Hands on your shoulders, a sudden (gentle? rough? you can't even tell) shove, and—

Memories jolt through your head as you breach the surface of the water _(looking in a mirror, eyes all your own and binary thoughts, the thrum of LOFPAS's silicon spires, a burst of rightness, how scary-smart and amazing Mituna is beneath the mixed signals trapping him inside his pan-zapped skull, waking up to a doofus Page's worried face, the endless chains of teal that formed a net to catch you when you fell...)_ , scorch away some of the fog, but you're so, so _tired_...

So you sink.

=====>

You fade back into consciousness as one final, weak little skirl of bubbles escapes your lips. (Somehow, sinking was... peaceful.)

Physically, you feel significantly better than you did before. (You suspect the purity of the electrical current might be a factor in that.) Mentally... You haven’t been your best, but somehow, you think you might be a little bit closer to okay now. Something about the thrumming of that spire is soothing, and you swear it’s inside your head just as much as it’s vibrating through your bones. (Your legs ache in the same specific spots they sometimes do, which is kind of annoying, but overall you don’t really care. In the tradeoff between leg pain and complete oppressive silence, you’ll gladly take leg pain. It’s not like you aren’t used to face-planting by now.)

Hmm... You could just attempt to fly your way out by slipping through the hole in the ceiling and following the spire until you hit open air, but that would be cheating this early on. You haven’t really done much exploring yet, and apparently your Quest progress bar has been reset, so it seems you’ll have to earn your shortcuts the proper way. (You’re not sure whether that’s some fragment of Dirk’s perfectionism, lingering Sprite shit, or just, well, _you_ , but the sentiment is there regardless of its source, and when in doubt, it’d be a shame _not_ to go with your gut now that you actually have one, so the long way it is.)

To be perfectly honest, you’re actually a bit tempted to sit here for longer, but the last thing you need is to piss off the chica to whom you’ve essentially just sold your soul. Nap time’s over, time to go.

You (reluctantly) get your ass moving and return to the main path to continue the trek out. This time, you resist any further temptation to explore, though you do note other side-paths with varying frequencies for later.

=====>

The first thing you see when you exit Mnemosyne’s lair is the new addition to the sky. What is that? Some kind of film? Wall? (Did she think you were going to run away? What the fuck!)

Well, best way to find out is simply to investigate. Flying is not cheating if it is the only viable method available, right?

=====>

“...Huh.”

Is it... ink? (It doesn’t match the rest of your Land, but it doesn’t feel wrong the way the Quest locations did, either. You can’t quite put your finger on what exactly it _does_ feel like, but...)

=====> Hal: Touch it.

You kind of just... float there, for a while, one hand submerged in ink (not freezing, but a bit cool) and eyes drifting shut.

_(((((((((((((........gentle breeze.... ......tree of.... .......tak-tak of keys on a........... ......in the sky were.................)))))))))))))_

.........

**_—WHUMP._ **

_Holy shit!!_ (...It seems the barrier is rigid on the outside, viscous on the inside. Interesting.)

“Dirk what the fuck!”

...You can’t hear a single word he’s saying.


End file.
